


Devotion

by turbulent_flow (mirandaskye)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirandaskye/pseuds/turbulent_flow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a time to move on but that time isn't now</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FangedAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/gifts).



_de·vo·tion : Function: noun  
1 a: religious fervour : piety  
b: an act of prayer or private worship  
2 a: the act of devoting, devotion of time and energy  
b: the fact or state of being ardently dedicated and loyal  
3: the object of one's devotion_

 

 

Midnight comes and he's still standing outside the bubble of light and noise and heat that shows no sign of dimming. If he took a step back, two, he would be back inside it. Drawn in again. Part of that world once more. A sliver of his soul wants it, yearns for it. He thinks life might have been easier back when the rules were clearly defined.

Michael twists the bracelet he is holding between his fingers. The beads are as smooth as a well-worn, much-loved rosary. The thought – incongruous though it is in this context – makes him smile a little; if he follows the thought to its logical conclusion it seems appropriate, somehow. Gives him a reason for being here, now, when he should in all conscience be thousands of miles away, safely at home with Corinna and the children and his carefully ordered life, rather than standing on a darkened terrace in Brazil at midnight with what sounds like the world's most irritatingly raucous party going on in the bar behind him.

The windows of the bar have been thrown open and if he bothers to listen he can hear Rubens shouting, although in his drunken state the Brazilian probably thinks he is speaking quietly. Another anecdote for the autobiography Michael is sure he already has in mind. Michael tunes it out and listens to the quiet sounds of the garden below his current perch instead; in daylight hours he barely noticed the waterfall but the sound of the falling water is almost hypnotic now.

The part of his mind that is still functioning properly is aware of farewells being said, of footsteps behind him. He doesn't look round; he knows that he's virtually invisible standing in the shadows and he's already recognised Felipe's voice. No need to be concerned. He holds his breath for a moment when he realises Felipe is not alone, exhales when he hears Rafaella's voice. Felipe is being good tonight.

Rafaella is telling Felipe off for spilling his drink on her dress and Michael listens to the tirade – and Felipe's feeble attempts to interrupt – as they make their way down the path to the car park. He thinks Felipe has got off lightly if a spilled drink is the worst misdemeanour Rafaella can bring to mind: Michael's lips twist in amusement at the thought of precisely what Rubens could put in that autobiography, if he chose to do so.

Michael doesn't think he'll put _that_ in though. Some lines are not meant to be crossed.

Michael turns his attention back to the waterfall, waiting patiently for his night vision to return. The sound of their footsteps fades away. Somewhere down below a car engine fires up and then that too is gone. He's alone with his thoughts again. Or at least he thinks he's alone, right up until the moment a quiet cough alerts him to another, familiar presence.

“Anyone would think you don't want to be here.”

Michael feels rather than sees him come closer, leaning on the balcony rail at Michael's side. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Michael to feel the heat radiating from his skin, and to realise belatedly how cold he himself is in his thin, short-sleeved shirt.

“It sounds like a great party.”

A sound that might be a sigh, or suppressed amusement. “Not really.”

Voices are raised in the building behind them again - Rubens again, this time querulously arguing with someone over whose drink he is holding. For a moment Michael thinks the argument might even spill out onto the terrace, but then another voice intercedes, diplomatically calming tempers on both sides. The volume of the music goes up another notch, effectively drowning out any lingering grumbles.

“Maybe we're getting too old for this kind of that thing,” Michael offers. The beads click through his fingers. Reassuring. Familiar.

This time the sound is most definitely amused. Disbelieving. “Speak for yourself.” He shifts position, moving a little closer to Michael. “So why _are_ you here?”

The question is too pointed for it to be comfortable. “It's for charity,” he says, aware of how pitiful it sounds and yet  hoping that will be enough. He's questioned his own sanity in coming here enough times not to want anyone else doing it. “Isn't it a bit late to be asking me that? We've been here for two days.”

He doesn't get an answer to that question and after a while Michael turns his attention back to the sound of the waterfall. He needs something to calm himself down. His fingers play restlessly with the beads, tugging on the cord. One day he'll probably break it. One tug, just a little too hard, and the cord will snap and the beads will spill all over the floor and that will be it.

The silence between them drags. It is not a comfortable silence.“You don't have to stay out here with me,” Michael offers, eventually. “I'm not good company tonight.”

Luca shrugs. “You think I want to go back inside and have Rubens draped all over me? I don't think so.”

He turns then, unable to stop himself reacting to the thought even as he curses the weakness it shows. It's been his Achilles heel for a long time now. Perhaps too long.“No.”

“Well then.”

“You didn't feel like leaving with Felipe?” he asks, before he can think better of it.

Luca gives him an amused look. “He was with his _wife_.” He yawns, and then answers the question Michael really asked. “He's ... impatient.”

“What about Kimi?”

This time Luca doesn't hesitate, and Michael doesn't know if that should make him feel better or worse. “Careless.”

Luca – _his Luca_ – is smiling at him; a strange, half-smile Michael doesn't think he's seen before. “You're not drunk, are you?” he asks warily.

Luca's hand rests over his, just for a moment. Discreet, because Luca has years of practice at being discreet. “No.”

Michael's skin burns where Luca's fingers touch and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to reach out and demand more. _Not here_, he thinks, _not now_, but he's losing the argument with himself a little more with every second that passes.

“We should go inside,” he manages to force out. “It's warmer.”

“We'll have to go through there.” Luca indicates the party with a nod of his head. “Sure you want to? Rubens might start talking to you.”

“Let him talk.”

His body is stiff from leaning on the cold stone. Another reminder – and hardly a welcome one – that times have changed. If Luca notices his momentary discomfort he keeps any comment to himself as they walk together back across the terrace.

The music in the bar is still deafening and, as he puts his hand on the door handle, Michael can see and feel the entire frame vibrating. He can only hope his room has some kind of sound-proofing or it's going to be a long night. He expects some kind of challenge or confrontation and the reality is something of an anti-climax because everyone is clearly far too engrossed in their own affairs to take notice of them as they pick their way across the bar area. Michael tries not to look too closely at the entwined forms; for most of them this isn't something they'll care to remember in the morning and he doesn't particularly want to remember it either.

“Amateurs,” Luca says dismissively when they're in the elevator, and his expression is so disapproving that Michael can't help laughing. Luca keeps up the façade a moment longer and then his lips too curve into a smile and for the first time that evening it feels comfortable between them.

“You could have come round any time,” Michael tells him as he unlocks the door to his room and pushes the door open. He can only hope the words don't come out as desperately needy as they sound in his head.

“You've been busy. So have I.” Luca follows him into the room and disappears into the bathroom while Michael double-locks the door, just in case any of the party goers have any ideas about playing pranks on him, and tries not to think about what Luca might have been up to with Felipe over the last few days.

“You told me to get along with him,” Luca says when he emerges from the bathroom, as if he knows exactly what Michael has been thinking about in the meantime.

Michael is instantly on the defensive. “I _asked_ you to help him.” He turns away just so he doesn't have to meet Luca's knowing eyes. “Look out for him. Which you did.” He hesitates, remembering how Luca used to work with him. For him. “Didn't you?”

Instead of replying Luca walks towards him, backs him against the desk. Nimble fingers unbutton his shirt and slide it from his shoulders, and then those same fingers begin to trace a delicate pattern over his collarbones, learning anew the texture of his skin. Michael lets out the breath he has been holding and closes his eyes as Luca's hands move lower. Shivers as his jeans are unfastened with reverent care. He's still holding the bracelet in his hand, he realises. He flexes his hand and beads worn smooth with use and faded with the sun run through his fingers.

One day the cord will break.

One day.

“Only you,” Luca says, so softly that Michael thinks he might have imagined it, and Michael opens his eyes in time to see Luca – his Luca – sink to his knees before him, face and hands turned up in silent supplication.

But for now it holds fast.


End file.
